


Till the Heavens Stop the Rain

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unrequited Lust, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean's been watching Sammy and trying not to see him at the same time for so long, Dean wonders sometimes if he sees the real Sam or just some kind of afterimage on the inside of his eyelids.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Heavens Stop the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soullessbrothers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/gifts).



He knows he shouldn’t. Why he has to torture himself like this he doesn’t know. Okay, maybe he does know. Doesn’t mean it isn’t fucked up. But he just got Sam back. He can’t stand to be too far away from him. Hates every night they aren’t in the same motel room together where he can see his brother. Hear him. Smell him.

Even now, when he’s grown into this man, this giant of a man with Sammy’s sweet smile and dimples you want to stick your fingers into, even now, he still smells the same. When they’re in the car and it’s hot and Sammy is asleep next to him, he can see the the baby curls of hair at the nape of his neck, smell that familiar smell of sweat, leather seats, hot denim, cheap laundry detergent, and something particular to Sammy. Dean could find Sam blindfolded, in the dark, if he was sweating. And Sam is always sweating. The boy is a furnace. Dean was cold every night that first winter without him. Went out and bought a goddamn hot water bottle, just to have something warm in his bed. Not that he and Sam shared a bed all the time. But sometimes. Sometimes was nice.

Dean doesn’t quite sigh as he slides down the wall outside Madison’s apartment door. He really hopes one of her neighbors doesn't ask what he’s doing sitting in the hallway. He’s banking on the famed indifference of big cities. 

There’s a muffled thud and the wall shakes the slightest bit against his back. Dean can picture Sam shoving Madison up against the wall; his huge body covering hers. He imagines Sam sliding his hand behind her thighs, lifting her up, until her legs wrap around his waist. Dean wonders if Sam ever did that with his girl back at Stanford. Jess. Jess was a beauty alright. And tall, a good match for Sam. He could picture them standing up, Sam’s back against the wall this time, legs stretched out so he was just at the right height to kiss her. Jess’s tits were, had been, awesome. Full and high. Sam’s hands were big enough that he could have held them easily, Could have covered them completely.

He hears another thud, and Madison moans a cut off curse. Dean’s seen Sam with women, girls, before. Before he left. Before. Underaged at the bars, drinking on a fake ID and hustling pool. Charming them all, men and women, with his shaggy hair and innocent air. Even then his little brother was more than Dean had expected. He’d watched some girl go down on Sam in the alley behind the bar - the smell of dumpster, old beer, and cigarette smoke, and Sam’s bitten off curses and gasps. Once, when he was watching (and it wasn’t wrong, the watching, he had to make sure Sam was safe), once he’d seen Sam’s hands hard on the woman’s head, fingers tangled in her hair. He’d jerked her head right and left, pulled her off of him with a wet pop, then let her slide forward just a bit, just until the tip was between her lips. His laugh, when she strained towards him, begging him, was dark and dangerous. Dean had gotten into three fights and gone home with twins that night. Sam had been sixteen.

He shifts positions in the hallway. Stretching out his legs, spreading his thighs as he feels the effect the memory of that night has on him. It’s faded and old, the picture, worn at the edges like the photographs of mom in John’s journals. But it still packs a punch.

If Dean strains, he thinks he can hear the creak of the bed springs as they fall into that big bed together. It’s warm today, sunny. Dean can see the streak of sun coming in from the hallway window. He can almost feel the warmth of the sun across their bodies. Sam tans as soon as the sun hits him. Toasting brown so evenly you’d think it was his natural color, unless you noticed the strip of white at the top of his cut off jeans. Saw how the skin that curved down into those jeans was creamy and smooth. Dean tried not to see. Been watching Sammy and trying not to see him at the same time for so long, Dean wonders sometimes if he sees the real Sam or just some kind of afterimage on the inside of his eyelids

Sam would be starting to sweat now. Drops curling down his neck, pooling in the small of his back. That Sam smell in the air. And the sounds, the sweet hitches of breath, the low moans, he knew so well from listening to Sam jerk it all those endless nights in cheap motels.

Sam would probably be going down on her now. Sliding down her body, kissing the whole way, hands smoothing down along her skin. Madison would like the feel of Sam’s stubble against her soft thighs, Dean just knew it. It would prickle a bit. Sam hadn’t shaved in a few days but his hair was surprisingly soft. Dean knew from that one time Sammy had sprained both wrists and Dean had had to shave him. He remembers the feel of Sam’s face under his fingers. The roughness of the stubble sloughing off to reveal skin that reminded Dean of baby Sam’s soft skin. His mouth remembered the taste of Sam’s baby belly, the high-pitch giggles Dean’s loud tickling raspberries always drew from him, and he had to resist the urge to see if he tasted different now. 

Dean forces his breathing slower and deeper. He’s careful not to move, not to press his growing erection any further into the slight pressure of this jeans. 

Madison’s voice is muffled but still loud through the closed door. “Oh fuck. Sam! Fuck, yeah.” 

The old man shuffling past Dean shoots the door a scandalized look. Dean musters a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and give the old man a thumbs up. “That’s my boy,” he forces through clenched teeth.

Because that is his boy. It was his job to teach Sam about sex, about everything. About how to please a woman. “You gotta do her first, Sam-I-am.” Sam had whined and made noises about how disgusting Dean was and how gross. And yeah, maybe that was more direction than a thirteen-year-old needed, but you never knew. Sam was a good-looking kid even then.

And obviously he had been listening. In twelfth grade, when he dragged that jock from his soccer team underneath the bleachers, Sam made sure to blow him first. Hands clenched around the guys tight ass, Sam owned him. All the guy could do was hold on. When the guy tried to pull off and Sam just yanked him deeper, Dean could see Sam’s throat moving. Dean had mindlessly pressed a hand against prick and his orgasm took his knees out from under him. _No touching_ became the rule then and there.

No touching. He never tried to touch Sam. Not really. Sam is ...not like Dean. He’s normal. He walks around naked in front of Dean and doesn’t think anything of it. He jerks off in the shower, not caring if Dean can hear. When Dean looks at him, he never catches Sam looking back. Nothing. Not one sign that he ever...ever wanted to touch Dean.

Right now, it’s getting harder and harder not to touch. Sam’s groans and muttered words are joining with Madison’s and Dean can hear the bed rocking, headboard slamming into the wall; the lullabye of his youth. Dean should go. Get up, go back to the hotel. Get some sleep. And he will, in a second, when he can trust his legs more. 

Madison yells out, sharp and clear through the wall and Dean is deeply grateful that the hallway is empty as he moans and pulls his legs up to his chest. He twist and pushes himself up with both hands pressing against the wall as Madison rides out her orgasm. Sam’s grunting _fucks_ and _jesuses_ are getting louder and sharper and Dean has to get the fuck out of there right now.

He stumbles down the hall, rips open the stairway door, and takes the steps two at a time. His hands brush the hand rails just enough to keep him from falling.

***

The shower at the motel is fucked up. The water is either too hot or too cold. Dean stands under the alternating flow and lets the heat and ice burn the sounds and images out of his head.

***

The next day, after it’s all gone to hell, after the tears and even after the gunshot like a punch in the gut, Dean still lets himself hate everyone who has gotten that part of Sammy he’ll never have. He looks over at Sam riding shotgun and thinks this at least is all mine. This is get to have. And he hates himself just a little bit more.


End file.
